Night Loops: The BBM Edition
The battery life on my cell phone now only last about a full hour after charging ever since I became a member of the PPP Black Berry messenger group. There are only about 13 member’s in this memory factory but that doesn’t stop us from covering most of New York and as far as Los Angeles. Moments are like seconds to us and there’s no telling what minute will provide the unforgettable magic our everyday life feeds off. The irony is that we don’t remember these moments, you probably do if you’ve seen us out. We have to go to the bbm group chat and read our timeline like some scene from the movie Memento. Torrid details of a night gone wild with incriminating and career ending photos. Some of us own our own galleries while others create for them or perform on stage for bass addicts and future ex groupies. Some of us have nothing but some leather holding collected business cards and petty cash. When the lights go off and we are in pursuit driven by our thirst, we are all the same, blinded by the fireflies we call street lights. Our wants know no bounds and our imagination recognizes no limits. We will never grow old or bored… the Peter Pan Posse.
It’s amazing how much life has changed since the invention of the cellphone. All our moves, vices, and needs are kept in this little handy device reminiscent of what Spock used to use in Star Trek. These phones are now extensions of our personality. Your Black Berry means you all about business while your iPhone means you’re creative and might have good credit. You pull out a flip phone in front of me and I’m thinking either a drug dealers throw away phone or poor people who didn’t spring for the insurance. Simple text messages have built and destroyed countless relationships yet our eyes stay fixated to the L.E.D. screen. It’s our social guru, it’ll tell you where to go and how to leave when you get there in case you hate it. If you love it you get even closer to the screen as you have to share that moment through the million social networking sites at your thumbs reach. Your camera phone captures the truth while you tell lies and send them via email. Your bbm says your busy while you’re chatting away in your bbm group or making a playlist in Pandora. Your Twitter says you’re at Lit while your Facebook says you’re at Kenmare and your GPS says you’re in a cab between both of those places. Welcome to the future, I hope you have an unlimited plan.
“Watching something on your cell phone seems like crazy talk to me”
The first thing I do when I wake up before I wipe the crust off my eyes is look for my phone. Mostly to see what I have missed, but after last night I’m more curious as to how I got home. I assume it was a cab by the uneven amount of crumbled up bills in my pocket. I didn’t lose my camera nor my sunglasses, sweet. I’m wearing 3 different wristbands and my hands are covered in stamps. I need water. I need to check the PPP bbm group. Nothing in the chat, but I do see a few recently pictures. It’s Matisse and Caleb taking pictures of themselves putting needles in each others skin. They are now following with captions of them hanging out in Heroin Park, also known as Tompkins Square Park, nodding in and out of sleep. Are they still up? What did I leave them doing last night?? Soon the bbm chat room starts to vibrate with the “what the fuck!?” everyone viewing is now feeling in unison. Both of them say nothing. Next thing you know I’m roped into a night out with Trybe. This mans voice sounds like he’s from Queens and has killed to protect his construction union workers at 32 B&J. He’s also a heavy drinker and I know he’s going to one day buy me that one shot that will kill me. It’s going to be a very long and classy night.
We reach the apartment Matisse is currently squatting at with 2 six packs of brown water. Matisse is doing her best drunk Parkour furniture flips and Caleb is playing darts with an underage blond that might have gotten off at the wrong stop in Penn Station. The table is littered with bottles and empty Camel packs half smoked cigarettes. There’s a Super Nintendo and a weird record player that makes anything on vinyl sound haunted. The bags under their eyes look like beautiful travel luggage as I’ve now walked into a Stockholm syndrome of fun. We call them dope fiends and they laugh and call us idiots.
“Those were acupuncture needles!”
“Whatever dad, let’s go to Gold Bar”
We go after convincing Matisse, doing her Cheshire Cat impression, to get down from the top of the cupboards. Same is not answering any of our calls and we assume he’s dead from last night. Everyone packs a stowaway beer for the ride. Gold Bar is more models and bottle then the Little Mermaid book bag Matisse is wearing and the cargo shorts Trybe has on but fuck if we care. Our faces are our ID’s. The gold skulls on the walls inside are all the bouncers we’ve killed over the years. I’ve walked pass angry black bouncers with a confederate flag patch on my jean vest just because of the power a white blond girl with a clipboard has. We breeze through the collared shirts and sequins trophy wife dresses to the DJ booth for bear hugs and double cheek kisses. We didn’t reserve a table but we seat ourselves anyway and help ourselves to someones trust funded baby bottle. He’s not going to get mad, he’s going to say hello and start a conversation littered with curiosity and wonder. The Arab Parrot just arrived maybe he’ll take his picture and caption it with “what a douche”. Same is not answering any of our calls and we assume he’s STILL dead from last night. Mint and Serf show up and the move is last call at Lit. It’s 3:45 am and we are a 20 minute walk away. It’s all possible. It’s all probable. It’s all perfect. PPP.
You know that feeling you get when you lose your phone? The phantom vibrations and the feeling of disconnect? How Dependant are we? How fascinating has our life become? I didn’t have my 1st cellphone until well into my 20’s and to think there’s a whole generation of kids that will never know what it is to have the phone number to someones house. We don’t even need to remember numbers anymore just the first few letters of a name. With Google maps you don’t even need to know directions. It’s as if we’ve based our survival on a small box made out of circuitry and plastic powered by a lithium battery. My niece has a phone and she’s only 12. It amazes me how much more access she has to information then I’ll ever have. She doesn’t have to make friends like I did when I was younger she can just choose them on MySpace. Why would she need to go outside to interact and live when the entire world is in her hip pocket, just a few buttons away? We even navigate New York City’s crowded streets and text at the same time. You ride the train and even in the tunnels with no reception we still ride with our heads down. Constantly tapping away at whatever is on our mind. No more casual conversations with commuters on the G train just the latest Arcade Fire or Gucci Mane in our ear muff headphones. We’ve connected and yet disconnected at the same time.
My Black berry get’s me on the stage at Webster Hall. This night it’s Switch from Major Lazer and Skerrit Boy is jumping off the DJ booth “daggering” contestant number 1. The skinny Karen O models type blush and shy away at such “urban-ness” but inside are enticed by the power. All the men are wishing they could jump on to ass like that. I think his pelvis just shattered. Armand agrees with me. I text Alex English After I see Jeff to find Reckless so he can get me a wristband for the VIP room. I squeeze pass the over weight security guard on to a stage filled with too many DJ’s and the few girls who want to blow them. There is no more booze upstairs in VIP. Oh word dad? Where’s my phone?
My Black Berry takes me to Santos Party House on Lafayette Street for Trouble & Bass. I text Luca to come to the side of the stage because as many times he’s seen me this door nazi won’t let me backstage. I know Luca is there because a Twitter post just told me so. Lurker. Nadja finds me a spare wristband and it’s packed and sweaty backstage time. Some girl spills a drink all over someones DJ bag and Luca takes it personal. Kicking people out of VIP is not the most exciting perk but there’s a certain guilty pleasure about kicking girls out in a male dominated industry. Everyone is drunk or passed out due to the combination of beer, Ambien, and jet lag. It’s too crowded to smoke a cigarettes so I go outside so stare at the commoners on the line. The bouncer outside recognizes me and casually reminds me I’m banned from his fine establishment in front of the crowd of raving smokers. Fuck you dude you just work here I live it here. I’m not looking at him or the rubberneckers I’m looking at my phone, waiting for the guru to tell me my next move.
My Blackberry takes me to the after hours. Is it a random Brooklyn bar? No it’s in this apartment building somewhere around the corner of Mercer and the entire West Village. Trybe has been driving in crop circles with an anxious crew of derelicts so I Google Map the address. Soon we are pack man gobbling up balls as we go through the maze provided by us by the GPS. Google does everything for you except purchase the beer and ring the door bell. Now we are in some smoke-filled studio loft discussing everything from fashion to um… fashion. Me and Trybe try to keep it as masculine as we can with old new york stories and graffiti talk but it’s starting to sound like a 1st date. Prince Terrance is playing what I’m gonna call “Nu-Dark Wave” on iTunes and the Asian dominatrix can’t keep her titties to herself. Now my blackberry is telling me I need go home. My girlfriend has only one rule: be home before she goes to work at 8pm and that’s in 15 minutes. I hope my phone can also send apologies and flowers.
“Email, instant messaging, and cell phones give us fabulous communication ability, but because we live and work in our own little worlds, that communication is totally disorganized. “
Marilyn Vos Savant
“Apparently we love our own cell phones but we hate everyone else’s. ”
Joe Bob Briggs